


The two of us against the rest of the world

by TheKats



Series: Prompted Oneshots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, I kinda want to put a 'sort of' after everything about this fic, John has difficulties to cope, Loneliness, M/M, Oh I don't know, So does Sherlock, Uhm, Zombies, but then, i don't really know how to tag this, read the bloody story!, sort of..., there are zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKats/pseuds/TheKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, no one quite understands what's going on; weird incidents far, far away. When something breaks loose, however, suddenly it's already too late.<br/>Possible trigger warning: slightly depressing narrative</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt... sort of. There was a picture in a fb group ("Sherlockians", you should totally join us, btw.) and a small group of inspired writers (like me) and somehow we ended up writing, encouraging each other :D If I ever figure out how to, I'll include the picture ^^  
> Probably 3-4 chapters, first one rather short.

Nobody knew how it happened. Of course. No one ever does. Or rather, no one ever informed the people. And then, it was too late.

 

It was a strange day, shady newspapers printing half-stories about some weird and brutal incident over in Germany. Apparently, a man bit off a strange passenger's ear, continuing to 'feed on his flesh' amidst the rush of life in the middle of a street. Other passers by tried intervening, helping the attacked man, but said 'cannibal' was said to be unbelievably strong and bit four of the helpers until he could successfully be tackled and held down. The police took the man in for custody; the hurt persons were taken to hospital. That was it. Further development was still to be seen.

None of the respectable papers told of such an incident. A prank? The attempt to raise attention to smaller and less respected publishers?

Later that day, however, on television news, there was a report about how all four had died within five hours; how they had woken up again and attacked the hospital staff until they were caught by the police and locked away, the building set under quarantine. The authorities, however, refused to give any information on what was happening.

Then, the next day: Boom! It was everywhere. Every news report was all about how the 'Hospital of the Dead' was abandoned by the entire staff and all the patients, walking, limping, stumbling like lifeless beings, overpowering the guarding police forces and running free around the city.

Sherlock stopped his pacing around the living room, head turning to watch the TV screen, his eyebrows drawing together in, not scrutiny, but disbelief, the incapability of accepting such happenings.  
The report ended with a reporter talking to the camera in what looked to be the city of interest, some people running through the crowds in the background.

John and Sherlock's eyes met in the spreading silence of shared knowledge. There was a storm coming.

 

For the next few days, England's citizens were glued to news reports of all forms, hunting down all the information there was to get from the developments in Germany and then Austria, Swiss, Denmark, the Netherlands. It seemed to be spreading like some kind of virus despite the surrounding countries swearing to having had all borders closed. Maybe it actually was some sort of virus then? Something that got into their systems some time ago, waiting for days, weeks to spread through the body and make them into.. 'Zombies', they say, as if this was some fucking film!This was real- the _threat_ was real! And if neighbouring countries had been affected with their borders closed, who could guarantee it hadn't reached England yet? Some travellers bringing it in? Something in the water? The air? Birds? There were more possibilities than John wanted to think of.

Personally, Sherlock and John thought it wise to stock up on food for themselves and Mrs. Hudson – when hell breaks loose, people panic and horde up all the supermarkets have to offer; best to take precautions. Although, of course, Sherlock still rarely ate, which, as terrible as it may sound, might act up in their favour for what seemed to be lingering in the shadows ahead of them.

And then it came, the bang. The first sighting of a couple of undead people in Hastings. And people went mad. After having seen how quickly it had seemed to infect the Central European countries, hysteria broke upon the people, families fleeing up north, supermarkets being cleared off food. They were glad they had stocked enough canned food to last for about two years, which was a lot of food, but who knew how quickly this would be handled, if at all.

Instead of going with the majority, they stayed in London, doing what they could, in the short time they had, to make 221 Baker Street a safe place. They were lucky, really, to be one genius and two reasonablycunning people under one roof – they had taken precautions instead of fleeing, that put them one step ahead of most people.

Still, it wasn't until Mycroft showed up, that it all seemed real. No doubt he had made preparations of his own and one of them would be to look out for his brother because, their squabbles aside, it was obvious how much he cared for Sherlock, which would be heart-warming, if London was not currently on the brink of being invaded by hordes of walking dead people.   
Unfortunately, Mycroft didn't know what had been the cause of all this either, but he informed they were aware, that this was a world-wide affair and, according to him, America had a far worse time; not that there should be a competition to being taken over by the most undead – it was promising to be the same result: death.

It was a day after Mycroft had come by when they finally reached their part of London and John watched them pass their house with a heavy feeling of depression. They reminded him of who they had been before, as a society; aimlessly wandering around, ignorant towards the existence of anyone else, staring into the world with a blank face, a common ideal keeping them going and nobody knew what for. They were exactly the same, but stripped of their masks.

The government remained silent, no sign of the army, the police or even the common criminal with a gun.

 

Even with three people in the house, it seemed lonely, silent and cold. Mycroft had left the day he had come by to get to their parents and they hadn't heard of him since. He had ensured them to inform them as soon as he arrived, to see if it maybe even was safer in a smaller area like where they were living. Three days later and no word. He could be dead, for all they knew.   
John would spent a lot of time looking outside, watching the stumbling figures with something akin to pity and envy. At least they didn't think about it any longer. Didn't worry.

Sherlock spent a large part of his day in solitude, withdrawn from the other two, occupying himself inside his mind palace, to which John didn't have many objections – at least he wasn't complaining about boredom.  
Mrs. Hudson was the one who had him worried a bit. She fussed about all day long, cleaning this and cleaning that, resuming from baking or cooking too much to not waste what they had, but nevertheless trying to act like nothing was the matter, like there wasn't a couple of millions of dead people playing alive in front of their door.   
Maybe it was the stress. Maybe that was too much for her at her age.   
Every time John asked, she just fussed around more, nervously, almost snappily, insisting that she was alright. So he stopped asking.

On hindsight, John wished he had spent more time talking to her, even before all this had started. He should have listened to her stories, as uncomfortable as they made him feel sometimes; as little as he wanted to know about all that stuff.

He should have listened.

He found her one morning, collapsed in her kitchen. From what he could tell, her heart had just given out. Their sweet, old landlady. That woman had been more than just a business partner; she'd been like a mother and especially Sherlock had taken such a liking to her. He glanced at the man over his shoulder, his body nothing more than a silhouette in the late evening light, the shadow of his moving arm dancing across John's face. They hadn't been able to bury her, not straight away. He asked himself what they were even doing any more. Sitting around, day in day out, occasionally eating something. Now they were missing two persons; Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, who was yet gone without further words. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was unaffected by it all. But more often than he'd ever admit, Sherlock stood and looked out the window, sometimes he watched the never-shrinking crowd, which he had never done before, or he looked into the small garden behind their house, the few patches of green that Mrs. Hudson had almost worshipped. John knew. He felt the same. People always thought of Sherlock as a cold and arrogant bastard, but somewhere between the front and the back of these old walls, there was reality – crude and brutal. He gave it a couple more days before Sherlock would lose his patience; a couple more till boredom ripped first him and then John apart.

Sometimes, they just sat there, looking at each other. Other times, they didn't pay each other the simplest of glances, couldn't bear the honesty they knew sat behind the flat faces, the dishonest, short half-smiles; the bare soul of uncertainty. Trying to keep the spirit high was remarkably difficult these days. Maybe it was because their landlady, who had died approximately half an hour before being found, had come upstairs to greet them with a friendly long groan. Maybe it was the fact that she was going right for Sherlock. Maybe it was the fact that John finally put her out with a gunshot to the head. But, you know, maybe he was just being a little paranoid.

It changed then. _They_ changed.   
The flat suddenly felt small, cramped, restricting. John started kipping on the sofa. He wouldn't say it, but he just couldn't bear being so far away from the only person he had left. Sherlock did him the favour of taking the little naps he allowed himself once in a while in his armchair. It wasn't something they had agreed on, but John figured the younger man felt like him, especially since he had been even closer to their landlady. Most people didn't see it, but, John thought sometimes, Sherlock was actually a fairly sensitive soul. Underneath that sociopath masking, there was semi-ordinary person that, yes, probably lacked the ability to have empathetic feelings, but was very much capable of feeling emotions himself. More often then not, Sherlock would wake him with a bit of music, a cup of tea already on the table before him. John would ask him if he'd eaten something since he'd gone to sleep and Sherlock would tell him no. About a month in, John stepped on the scale out of curiosity. He'd lost more than 10 pounds and he would bet Sherlock had lost even more – not that he'd had much weight to lose in the first place. Looking in the mirror, though, John noticed how awful he looked. This whole situation had just swept over them and it had consumed them like nothing should ever have the power to. He was down to one meal every two days already and he didn't dare ask even himself when Sherlock had eaten last. 

After his quick tour to Mrs. Hudson's 'grave', which had become more of a habit than he would like to admit, he went to turn in for the night.

One night, about three months in, Sherlock hadn't left the sofa by the time John had finished his routine. He lay there, on his belly, staring at some unidentifiable spot on the floor. John told him he wanted to drop now, but instead of leaving the cushions, Sherlock rolled unto his side, his back pressed against the back of the furniture as if in invitation for John to take the free space, eyes still fixed on nothing. And despite knowing how awkward it was and how many lines he'd be crossing, John lay down next to him, his back to the other man, naturally. Even as he thought it, John couldn't help but notice how incredibly lonely he felt, how much he craved closeness and human touch. It felt bad to use Sherlock like this, but, even though John knew the man didn't view things that way, the younger seemed to feel similar, if he was willing to share such a small space with him. Three months. Three months without contact to the outside world, a bit over two of them without any social contact beside each other whatsoever and they rarely talked, still. So now, cuddling up with Sherlock seemed more comforting than unsettling. Everyone thought them gay already and now no one was around any more, so what did it matter anyway. Right now he was good with just feeling that he wasn't alone in this. All this madness and he didn't have to go through it alone – good enough for him.

They didn't talk about it, didn't even mention it the next day. Everything went like their usual routine. But that day, finally, Sherlock ate something. John felt sickly satisfied to watch him chew on those beans, swallow spoonful after spoonful, until his entire bowl sat empty before him. He was aware that Sherlock's eyes were laid on him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet them. Looking into the cold, analytic stare of his best friend, his only friend, was about the last thing he could deal with right now; he'd rather keep his mind alive and distracted instead of being reminded of what lingered outside.

They happened to end up on the sofa together by happy coincidence every night, then. Sherlock started eating regularly, taking his meals together with John. Then he'd lay thinking on the sofa until John went to sleep. After a week or so John stopped telling himself it was coincidence. After nine days, he turned around, he couldn't keep showing Sherlock his back, he needed to touch someone, to feel a human being still beside him. The younger man didn't seem to mind. While he'd always been one to feel uncomfortable with anyone touching him, he'd never shown signs of displeasure at John's touch; no comments, no swipes, not even disgusted glances. It made him feel privileged and, god damn him, he needed that right now.

Another two weeks in he woke up in the middle of the night. For once, he saw Sherlock asleep. He reached up, dazed mind travelling his features, exploring the surface of a t-shirt clad body. He didn't know _what_ he was thinking, probably nothing at all, but this, just feeling, physically feeling a warm, breathing, pulsing body beneath his hand, it was the most incredible sensation he could remember having ever had. When Sherlock calmly blinked awake, he didn't say anything, didn't tell him to stop. So John didn't. In fact, he went to touch more, feel more. Sherlock never drew back when their lips met. He didn't protest when John absent-mindedly lead his friend's hand to his lonely cock. He felt so fucked up, he didn't even care that it was Sherlock doing this any more. He just needed this right now. He even tried to return the favour, but Sherlock stopped his hand and held it till they fell back asleep.  
They carried out their routine as usual. No word about it fell all day. In the evening they ate, paying close to no attention to each other, just like the last months. After dinner he got up, took care of the dishes and went to the bathroom. In a moment of rare motivation, he reached for his razor.

A shave and a splash of water later, John felt fresh. Fresh and clear and ready. They would leave Baker Street and try to find other people. He couldn't continue sitting around, waiting for some quirk of luck to turn the world back around. Someone else must have survived until now; someone must still be out there.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John leave Baker Street.

Sherlock packed, as instructed, mostly their food, giving up his expensive wardrobe to take just the most necessary, which was the outfit he was wearing and three sets of spare clothes – his favourite shirt, the purple one, included.  
John did just the same. They had their clothes together in one bag and two more spacious backpacks with their canned food, some of it packed with their clothes, just so they could take as much as possible. The mobile and internet networks had broken down two days ago, electric utilities had shut down in the entire country as well. Everything had shut down. They still hadn't heard from Mycroft, so he was either dead or wouldn't be able to reach them again. They were going _now_. They'd try to get to Sherlock's parents eventually, if only to see they hadn't made it, whatever, but for now, that was just too ambitious a goal to aim for.

John loaded his gun, slipped the weapon and spare rounds in Sherlock's pockets. They would go to check for any more guns and ammunition on their way to wherever, but till then, he wanted Sherlock at a safe distance, if needed and possible, so he equipped himself with their two large kitchen knives. It was a dangerous move for himself, sure, but at least he had once been trained for direct combat and he trusted himself with that more than Sherlock.

He strapped the backpacks around his front and his back, telling Sherlock to take the clothes and food one. It was the lightest – as was Sherlock.

He didn't correct the taller man when he remarked with a smirk that John was enjoying this. In a very sad way, he did. Sherlock had it all there, in his mind, John could picture it. This was back to war; this was Captain Watson again and yes, the world was dead, their closest friends and family were all likely dead, but he couldn't help it.   
He took a deep breath and lead the younger man out through Mrs. Hudson's flat, into the small back yard. Saying their goodbyes at her grave, they climbed their way out, making as little noise as possible and, being who they were, one could have thought they were cats sneaking up on their prey.

Sherlock whispered the directions to him and John lead them safely through the city.

 

By the end of the day, they had made it over to the Met without any large incidents. Don't ask how, but more than three stabbed corpses hadn't been necessary.  
Inside the building, John handed Sherlock one of the knives – gunshots were loud and only to be fired when unavoidable, but the Met was rather empty, yet, and it would do to have Sherlock as a safety measure behind him.   
The ex-soldier trusted his hearing mostly, listening to their shuffling, groaning, stomping and breathing. They dropped the bags silently. He rounded a corner, knife lifted to suspected head-level and hit home, taking down a Constable with gunshot wounds in his chest. Taking off the man's shoe, hiding behind a chair, he tossed the boot right across the room, the three remaining corpses stopping their aimless tracks to inspect the noise. He motioned for Sherlock to take the opportunity and take one down as well. Going in with close to no risk was good enough for him to have Sherlock make a move. Unfortunately the third one was alerted by the thumping of a body hitting the floor behind him, so John let his one drop, instead of bringing her down noiselessly, kicked the interested body hard and stabbed its head when it had stumbled to the ground.

They looted the dead bodies, finding some ammunition, stashing it when collecting their bags before sneaking up to the next floor.

A couple of floors and many dead bodies later, they had cleared the building, five new guns and many rounds of ammo at hand. They decided to call it a day, settling down in Greg's old office, where John sporadically prepared a meal for them.

After they had eaten in the usual silence, John declared he'd take watch for the night. Sherlock needed to sleep, to catch up on many lost nights and they couldn't be sure this building would stay safe over night.

 

John sat down outside the door, knife to his left. With great relief, he recalled not seeing Greg among any of the corpses they had dropped in here – there was a chance their friend had somehow survived. He regretted having had so little contact with the DI before London got overrun.

He scraped a hand down his face. Without the adrenalin of the day, realisations hit him hard – this _was_ like Afghanistan; his team – him, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, reduced by one – and the other men, like Mycroft and Greg, who weren't on his team, so he had no knowledge of their whereabouts other than their 'assigned' areas. And so, so many dead people. He had stabbed Sally Donovan today. Mind you, he hadn't liked her, but he had not wished for her death.

It felt like all he fought for was to keep Sherlock alive, stupid as it may sound. Sherlock was a grown man, easily underestimated in strength and capability to fight. But something about him made him seem so innocent to John, that he felt the need to protect this innocent life like a child. The man hadn't even complained when John had directed him to mostly stay safe behind him. He'd practice with him a bit, of course, and maybe he'd slowly let him take more fights as they grew into this new life, but he'd like to just know that he was safe and protected. He was the closest relationship John had had in years after all, which, suddenly, made him feel very conscious.

With a pang in his chest, he felt very guilty for what had happened the previous night. He hadn't planned it, of course, and neither had he intended to, but he now felt like he'd used the younger man. He reckoned it'd been simply because he had felt so lonely, still did, and if he was honest, he wasn't quite used to living in celibacy. It had been a slip. The kissing was just a bit of romance he liked. Sherlock surely understood. No, he was Sherlock, how would he understand.. Surely he didn't think anything of it. Anyway, he had made it more than clear that he wasn't interested in that sort of interaction and his reaction to John's advances had confirmed that.

He was probably worrying more than was necessary.

The night passed along quietly. So quietly in fact, that John got up and walked around a bit on their floor, looking out the windows just to make sure that the dead people were still roaming on the pavement outside. Some of them already showed minor signs of decay, others were still in top shape, like Mrs. Hudson had been. She hadn't been bitten or whatever, just died and then lived again. This could only mean, that they were all infected already – whatever the cause. Everyone. Him and Sherlock. They'd die one day and turn into one of these.   
One might question why they were still fighting, but John always kept in mind, that everyone died eventually anyway, so why do anything in the first place, if you give up over something like this. He was a man of hope. Maybe he wouldn't see the day, maybe neither of them would, but once it was figured out just what had caused this, there would be work on a cure. Maybe he was lucky enough to make Sherlock see the day. He prayed for it.

 

He woke Sherlock in the morning, hating to interrupt the man catching up on years of lost sleep, but they needed to move on. John's goal was it to get out of the city by the end of the day – they would be going to a town or village, somewhere smaller, with less people, or corpses in this case.

And he would bet they weren't the only ones who've had that idea. Most certainly not everyone had fled north.

 

They actually made it out of London by dusk, clearing out and settling in an old apartment building for the night. John dropped the backpacks with a relieved sigh, stretching his back, ignoring Sherlock's offer to swap at least the 50/50 bag with one of John's. However, the younger man did not let him battle him down over taking the night watch, Sherlock just insisted and John was too tired to keep his persistence up.

Coddled up on a cold mattress, under a dusty blanket in an unheated room in dawning winter cold, John tried to clear his mind and fall asleep, but, again this is when his brain got active, as his muscles relaxed. Back were guilt and thoughts about that night, not all of them safe, but he didn't want to go there, not like this. He should have talked to Sherlock, but he just simply couldn't. Neither would he be able to tomorrow – he knew himself. The worst thing was, he wanted it to happen again. He wanted Sherlock to crawl up into this bed next to him, kiss him, caress him, bury a hand in his short hair and touch him, or just kiss him, or cuddle up with him, or just lay there, radiating warmth and comfort, or maybe just stand there for John to look at.  
Sherlock never entered the room. About an hour later, John managed slip under.

 

When Sherlock woke him in the morning, John decided he'd teach Sherlock a move or two to safely operate the knife, discussing strategies and routines with him to work more efficiently together.

That day, they left the house around noon and went further away from their beloved home.

 

At some point, they heard guns being fired in the distance and made their way in that direction as quickly and undetected as possible.   
There, in the middle of the street, was a group of five people, shooting their way over to a grocery store.   
Carefully, they fought their way through to them.

Guns were raised to their heads immediately. John tried to dissolve the situation by offering food in exchange for shelter and protection by the group. There were some negotiations, but in the end, hunger won out and they were accepted in, ultimately won over by the mention of John's military career and Sherlock's intellect.

 

They were taken with on the loot of the shop, which didn't have too much left, and were then lead back to the group's base in the middle of a village. Detached and quiet, just as John had hoped. They had settled down in a house, with all but one bedroom taken, sofas included. It didn't matter to them, really, neither of them minded any more, which, of course, earned them snickers and comments, but whatever, they weren't alone any more and they'd get used to them.

In the evening, when they were alone in their room, sorting themselves out, Sherlock raised concern over the group possibly just wanting to steal their food and be gone. John argued that even if they'd manage, they could still go back to Baker Street and collect the remaining cans, the ones they weren't able to fit in their bags. It would still be enough for quite a while.

 

The night they lay back in their old position: John's back to Sherlock on the small single bed. Nothing happened and John was content.

 

It turned out the group was not planning to rob them, but they were a bunch of arseholes, at least in how they treated Sherlock. John forgot sometimes, that Sherlock wasn't compatible with everyone and that most people didn't take kindly to be being brutally turned inside out by his deductions.

They didn't last 12 hours with these people. John left them a few cans anyway, if only just to relief his shoulders off their weight.

 

They spent the following night in the same village, but would leave the next day to avoid conflict. They'd take course to Sherlock's parents.

At dinner, the younger man cast him a few short looks that John couldn't really name. He looked a bit guilty, as if seeking forgiveness, but for what? What would Sherlock feel sorry for? John didn't know.

He spent the night sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning back against a counter in mild frustration.

For two hours he brooded over all that had happened, especially between them and what they were. They rarely spoke with one another still, or maybe now even more so.  
He was surprised to hear Sherlock padding into the room, dropping down besides him. John cast him a short glance, trying to hide his thoughts from the other man, sparing them both a fuss over Sherlock's sleeping habits.

The taller man was intent, however, on getting more attention than that and also gave an answer to all unspoken questions by gently grabbing John's chin, turning it to face him and dropping a long kiss on his lips. They looked at each other for a solid second before Sherlock closed his eyes and John followed him, kissing him back.

Slowly Sherlock let himself slide sideways so he was sinking lower, ending on many short, but desperate, pecks before laying his head down in John's lap.  
So much for the insecurity. Sherlock hadn't minded their encounters.   
And he'd felt bad about getting them thrown out of the group like that. He hadn't meant to, not with John having it had set as a goal to find and stick with other people, Sherlock told him quietly from where his head rested on John's thighs. The older man caressed his head and told him he didn't mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that bit of fluff. I sure did :3


End file.
